


Of Santa and Jumpers

by trajektoria



Series: Of Consulting Detectives and Their Son [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Christmas Presents, Established Relationship, Fluff, Johnlock - Freeform, Kissing, M/M, Parentlock, fluffy fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-24
Updated: 2013-12-24
Packaged: 2018-01-05 22:14:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1099206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trajektoria/pseuds/trajektoria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Christmas everywhere is a very special time, 221b Baker Street included. It's the time for carols, awkward presents, fairy lights and cheer all around. Well, and obviously for Santa-hunting, since Hamish needs to see with his own very eyes how the man in red coat manages to sneak into their house to leave gifts. Silent night, fluffy night... and morning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Santa and Jumpers

**Author's Note:**

> Big thanks to [captainjennhart](http://captainjennhart.tumblr.com/) who helped me improve the text.
> 
> If you get Cabin Pressure reference you're a fabulous person. Merry Christmas!

Christmas was undoubtedly a very special time. Hamish could feel it in the air. Literally - the odour of burnt chemicals, blood, and decay that usually permeated the flat (much to John's dismay, which erupted in predictable intervals in the form of loud arguments with Sherlock) had been replaced with the pleasant smell of gingerbread and butter cookies, which he gladly helped his Papa and Mrs. Hudson to bake. The boy had waited on pins and needles since the beginning of November to see the fairy lights shining brightly all around the city and hear festive songs being played in shopping malls. What was more, he was perfectly aware that Christmas held a lot of secrets. He didn't really believe in magic - when he was three Daddy told him it was all rubbish, which for some reason made Papa really angry - but he did believe in evidence. And all the evidence pointed to the fact that Santa Claus was very real and indeed brought him presents every Christmas. The boy really wanted to figure out how the man was doing it and catch him in the act. He had lots of theories, but none of them were valid without confirmation.

Hamish sat on his bed wrapped up in a blanket so tightly that only his dark mop of hair was sticking out, which made him look like a human burrito. He was on full alert, clutching Mr. Bee and a lit torch he had nicked to his chest, careful not to fall asleep despite his tiredness. He knew he had to be vigilant if he wanted to succeed. Judging by the lack of noises in 221b Baker Street - the last sound that he heard was the soft clank of the bathroom door closing behind Daddy - Hamish deduced that his parents had already fallen asleep. It was time to commence the operation. Last year he failed, but this year failure was not an option. This time he'd catch Santa red-handed!

Parents were sleeping, so he had to move swiftly and quietly or they would wake up and tell him to get back to bed. The boy stood up carefully and padded barefoot to the door. He felt much braver while hidden mostly under the blanket, which he put over his head like a hoodie. It was a bit scary to go alone to a dark room, so the presence of his dear cuddly friend also provided a great comfort. Armed with the support of Mr. Bee, the torch being his lightsaber, and the blanket in the role of the best armour he could scavenge, Hamish carefully pressed his ear to the wood, holding his breath. He hoped to hear the characteristic jingling of bells or soft grunts of the reindeers. Even the bellowing “Ho ho ho” would have satisfied him. No luck, though. The flat seemed eerily quiet without his Daddy working late. On the bright side, Hamish still had time to lie in wait for Santa. The worst thing would have been to miss him completely, but he was fairly sure that no one had entered their home yet. Perfect.

Hamish stood on his tiptoes and pressed the handle, opening the door to his room and peeking carefully outside. The flat was silent, but less dark and frightening than he anticipated. Daddy must have forgotten to switch off the fairy lights again. Even more perfect. The living room appeared to be more cosy than intimidating, painted with the reddish and greenish hue coming from the decorations and lamps strewn along the shelves. The boy pulled the blanket up so as not to trip over it at the stairs and went down, lighting the way with his torch, even though it wasn't necessary. Still, it made him feel like a Jedi and that was far too cool to stop.

Hamish halted in the doorway, his eyes darting all around the room. He had to be thorough and professional, just like that man, James Bond or something, from the movies Papa liked to watch. Daddy thought them to be painfully stupid, but Hamish didn't really mind watching them, especially the older ones – they were fun. The newer ones, though, were too brutal and gave him nightmares. He wouldn't admit that to his parents, obviously, wanting to pose as fearless. The son of a consulting detective and an ex-army doctor should be valiant and not a crybaby, after all. That one time when he wet his bed didn't really count and it was surely long forgiven.

Hamish still couldn't decide whether he'd prefer to be a Jedi or a James Bond, but he figured he had time to think about it properly later. Right now he should focus on the task.

No one was in the room apart from Billy, who bared his teeth in a morbid smile like he always did. Hamish smiled back at him. Daddy was right: that Santa hat really suited him. The next step in his observations was the Christmas tree, which he had helped to decorate a few days ago. Daddy picked him up and let him put the star on top of it. Hamish could tell it was a bit crooked, but Papa assured him it was perfect and praised him, much to the boy's contentment. So far the space under the tree was empty. Definitely a present-free zone right now. Good. It meant that Santa hadn't come had yet. The boy had time to take the best possible position and hide.

Hamish walked to John's armchair and crouched behind it, making a snug fort for himself with the blanket. From this observation point he could see the tree, the windows and the stairs. Just to be sure, he peered a few times towards the chimney, though he always found it odd how such a fat man could possibly squeeze through such a small place. Other entrances seemed far more probable, but he didn't want to take any chances; it was far too important. The only thing left to do now was to wait patiently.

“You see, Mr. Bee, this time we'll surely catch Santa!” he whispered excitedly to his friend.

Fifteen minutes later Hamish was sleeping soundly with his cheek pressed against the armchair, his cuddly toy resting safely in his arms.

 

* * *

 

“Hamish, wake up! It's Christmas morning!” Sherlock said softly, putting his hand on the boy's shoulder and shaking it gently.

“Get dressed you merry gentlemen!” John chimed in jokingly, crouching beside him. Hamish had misheard the lyrics once and simply couldn't be persuaded that the correct words were in fact “god rest you merry gentleman”, saying that it didn't make any sense. John was infallibly amused by his son's nearly Sherlock-like stubbornness.

Hamish opened his eyes groggily, wiping the corner of his mouth with his hand, since he'd been salivating on his pyjamas. It took him a moment to come round enough to focus his gaze at his parents, who still weren't properly dressed, both in their dressing gowns.

“Was Santa here?” he muttered, taking a peak from behind John to inspect the Christmas tree, now flooded with various packages.

“Yes, honey. He didn't want to wake you up, but he said that you were a very good boy this year and deserve lots of gifts!”

Sherlock had a hard time not rolling his eyes at his husband's folly. He was opposed to feeding the little boy such nonsense, but John was adamant, so he decided to humour him against his better judgement. Still, his face fell a little when he noticed the look of utter disappointment painted all over his son's features. He knew all too well how it felt to fail on one's quest in the pursuit of knowledge.

“Maybe you'll have more luck next year. You know what, Hamish? Next year we'll all wait for Santa together, all right?” Sherlock proposed. John quirked an eyebrow at him, but presumed that the detective had an idea. Maybe he'd convince Mycroft to dress up and hope that the dimmed light would do the rest.

“Really?” The boy's face lit up brighter than a halogen.

“Really, I promise,” Sherlock said solemnly. “For now though, why don't you take a look at your presents?” He pointed in the direction of the Christmas tree.

Hamish didn't need to be encouraged any more. He jumped to his feet, abandoning, without a shadow of regret, the blanket and the torch with now dead batteries, and bounced, thrilled, to the heap of colourful packages.

John stood up and wrapped his arm around his husband's waist, watching warmly as their son found the gifts meant for him without much problem, mumbling excitedly to Mr. Bee.

“Remember when last year he wanted a puppy or a brother or a sister?” John whispered into his husband's ear with amusement.

“Yes. It's not something you can really forget,” he replied with a smirk. “It was a stroke of genius on your part to tell him that Santa can't bring living things because they would suffocate in the sack.”

John giggled at the memory, nudging him playfully. “Well, it's not like you have monopoly on being smart.”

This year the gifts were less controversial. The boy got tons of sweets (“not before breakfast!”), new pyjamas with bees (which caused a lot of joyous squeals from Hamish) and a drawing pad with a batch of crayons. The main attraction, however, was hidden in a big rectangular box. The youngest Watson-Holmes quickly tore the paper off of it and gasped.

“Ah! A microscope set!” he said in awe, radiating exhilaration.

“Santa surely was overjoyed when choosing that for you,” John stated, casting a sidelong glance at his husband.

“Obviously, it's a great gift,” Sherlock added, grinning more than was decent. “We can do some research later if you wish,” he offered with eagerness rarely displayed when talking about playing with his son.

“After breakfast,” John remarked steadfastly.

“Fine, after breakfast,” he agreed, pouting like a little child.

Hamish involuntarily mimicked his expression, thus causing an undignified cackle to escape from John's mouth.

“There are still some boxes left under the Christmas tree. Maybe you can hand them out?” John proposed gently, wanting to eradicate the sour mood. Thankfully, the boy didn't inherit Sherlock's tenacity in his sulk. The boy distributed the remaining packages with excitement that only a five-year-old could show.

“This one is for you, Papa, and this is for Daddy,” he chirped, feeling like Santa's little helper.

The adults exchanged glances.

“Open yours first,” Sherlock urged, a hesitant expression on his face. John shot him a calming smile as if to say 'whatever this is I'd love it” and carefully unwrapped the present. He wondered what it could be. Without the paper and the ribbons the box seemed very light. Really, if Sherlock forgot to put anything inside, he'd need to start considering a divorce.

The moment he lifted the lid and peered inside, he began to laugh hysterically. On the bottom of the box there was a hideous blue-red jumper, which hardly resembled a piece of garment one would dare to put on, let alone leave home with it.

“You hate it?” Sherlock asked rather sheepishly. Granted, the jumper didn't look very appealing, but he did his best. Mrs. Hudson was very patient with her knitting lessons, but Sherlock discovered soon enough that, sadly, working with wool wasn't one of his fortes and he lacked the talent to manufacture anything even half decent. Still, he made that jumper with love. It seemed thought that John didn't really appreciate it. Maybe he should have simply bought something of a higher quality instead. His shoulders hunched.

“It's totally awful,” John confirmed, stifling a broad grin. Somehow he found the situation hilarious. “Now open yours.”

Sherlock shot him a quizzical look, but obeyed the request. When he noticed what John had prepared, everything became clear.

From the box he produced another jumper, which could be considered a horrid twin to the other one.

“Mrs. Hudson?” Sherlock asked, fighting the mirth with difficulty.

“Yup. Great minds think alike, eh?”

Sherlock agreed with a nod, his lower lip twitching. They couldn't stop themselves any longer. Both burst out laughing and Hamish joined them too when he understood that Santa somehow had brought them basically the same failure of a jumper, apparently after some consultation with Mrs. Hudson.

“Thank you, Santa. I shall wear this woolly abomination proudly,” Sherlock promised jokingly, shedding the dressing gown and putting the jumper over his pyjamas. John did the same and then they hugged each other warmly.

“Daddy, will you play Christmas carols now?” Hamish asked pleadingly.

“You know how to play them yourself. You need to practice,” Sherlock stated with unwavering strictness. Violin lessons should be taken seriously.

“But Daddy...” Hamish whined, making puppy eyes at his parents. “Papa...”

John chuckled, perfectly aware of what the boy was doing. Not that he was totally immune to his charm.

“Come on, Sherlock. Just this once. It's Christmas. Pleeease?”

The detective sighed. Maybe he could fight Hamish's adorableness alone, but certainly not when his husband joined the attack of cuteness.

“Fine. But just this once. Tomorrow you'll be practising again, understood?”

“I will!” Hamish agreed perkily.

Sherlock went to the shelf where the violin case rested. He took the instrument, made a few screeching notes as he was warming up and then asked his family, “What should I play?”

John turned to the excited little boy. “What's your favourite Christmas carol, Hamish?”

“Silent Night!”

“So be it.”

John picked up his son and they rested in the armchair. Sherlock started the melody. Hamish joined in, singing the song in his clear voice, though he improvised most of the lyrics. John didn't mind really and sang along as best as he could, though his vocal prowess wasn't really anything to write home about. Still, it was nice to just cuddle and to immerse themselves in the warm domesticity of Christmas morning while enveloped in the beautiful tunes.

When the song ended, Sherlock bowed slightly and got rewarded with a round of enthusiastic applause. Hamish then slid from John's lap and grabbed his hand, dragging him near the fireplace, waving to Sherlock to come as well.

“Mistletoe!” He cheered, pointing upwards. “We have to kiss now!”

“Well, you're right. It seems we really don't have any choice!” John said with feigned exasperation as he bent down to kiss the forehead of the giggling boy. Sherlock repeated this gesture after him.

“It seems now it's our turn,” he decided with a smile. John embraced him tenderly and they kissed on the lips, far too long for a simple 'Merry Christmas'. Only when Hamish started tugging at John's ghastly jumper, did they snap out of the trance and look at their boy.

“Papa, make breakfast already!”

“Are you that hungry, Hamish?” John inquired, surprised to see him demand food on Christmas morning so vehemently. The boy's unambiguous reply shattered John's doubts.

“No! I want to do research!”

Sherlock grinned at his husband and John just laughed.

“We've created a monster. But at least he wants to eat,” John pointed out knowingly. “There's much you can learn from him, Sherlock.”

“Just tea for me, thank you.” Coaxing him into a proper nourishment demanded much more effort.

“You're truly incorrigible.”

“Why would I be corrigible? You love me anyway, don't you?” He flashed him a roguish smile.

John chuckled and felt he simply had to kiss him again.

Hamish stomped his foot impatiently. “Papa, breakfast!”

“Right, right...”

In the end, the science prevailed over kissing at 221b Baker Street. At least for now. Judging by the pinch John left on Sherlock's bottom, they both couldn't wait to take off their jumpers. Simultaneously. And in a not very Christmasy way.


End file.
